Rose, White and Green Darnit!
by skywolf2001
Summary: Canada gets to host a world meeting! It doesn't happen often, but when it does he makes sure to invite all his provinces to the meeting, and goes the extra mile to get remembered. Every time this happens thought, one province never shows up. Newfoundland, Ex-Dominion and "youngest" province of Canada. Why? Well, that's a very complicated question...
1. Chapter 1 - The Call

~~Chapter 1 - The Call~~

Joseph was a well respected man in the small community of Rose Blanche, Newfoundland and Labrador.

He was loved, a friend to many a family. The restaurant & pub knew him well and always kept his spot at the counter free on Friday nights. The local fishermen admired him, not only for his beautiful long-liner but for the skill of his hands with a filleting knife. He was invited to almost every wedding, baptism, and funeral (because he would most definitely show up uninvited anyway).

Normally, the man could be found down by the dock or up by the old, restored 19th century stone Lighthouse. On a rainy day he would be in his self-built house, tucked under the rocks that separated the community in two. Everyone knew where Joseph Karlson Smith's house was, even if he rarely had visitors.  
Nobody needed to open the old fence gate, trudge through the overgrown clearing with the pine trees to the left and a huge wall of rock to the right, walk around the outcrop and then through the mini forest that hid the neat cloud blue and white trimmed house, to find him that is. The building had its own nook in the world, a copse of pine in front, a steep hill of solid rock to the left and the back, to the right a nice little clearing of neatly trimmed grass and a shed, with the outcrop barely seen behind some more pine trees. It was protected from the worse of storms and North Atlantic gales, a calm place on the windiest of days.

While these were all things everybody knew about Joe, nobody really _knew_ knew him. He didn't have any family, rarely talked about his past and nobody knew from where he hailed from. He was just there. A constant person in the community, some would even swear he didn't look a day older from when he had first showed up…. Whenever that had been.  
They knew that his long liner, self built in Rose blanche years before, was a work of art. Her name was _The Republic_ , as stated on both sides of her bow in scrawling letters over two crossed Newfoundland Tri-colors.  
They knew his skill with just about any traditional instrument, kitchen parties just weren't the same without him. From tin whistles, to Irish Flutes, to the spoons, the fiddle and accordion.  
They knew he could Captain a ship just as well as build one, sail in one and fish in one. That he could fillet a cod, dry it and salt it with such mastery that the older men stopped and watched in awe.

Joe was a walking mystery. A kind, polite mystery sure, but still a mystery. There was always a bit of gossip on him, but nobody could bare saying a harsh word about the cheerful man. There was just something about him, the look in his eyes, the way he carried himself.

The Rock, as Newfoundland was so fondly called by its inhabitants, had seen hardships and tragedies, wars, a Tsunami, record breaking storms. The men were tough, the women were tougher, and all learned to live in the harsh environment. Of course, nowadays the living was easier. But traditions and memories remained.  
Somehow, whenever anybody of the community looked at Joe, they could see all of that. Somehow, this man reminded them of everything the island had stood and would continue to stand for.

Which would make sense, after all, he was the personification of the damn place.  
Joeseph Karlson Smith, or rather the Ex-Dominion-now-Province-of-Canada Newfoundland and Labrador, was a tall man, looking about 30. 6'4, built lean but sturdy, unshakable. He had hair reaching the nape of his neck at the back and cut shorter along the sides, messy like you wouldn't believe, in addition to cow-licked bangs that simply refused to go any other way then straight up. It was a mix of shades, sandy brown with a strong red tint and darker brown here and there. His face was kind, young with an older air of responsibility, with only the slightest, tiniest wrinkles around his ever-changing eyes. They would shift with the ocean, deep blue one moment and stormy grey the next. He had a nick in his eyebrow, from where he claimed he was smacked in the face with a door when he was younger, and a light scar that ran from his left jaw to his chin. He always had a 3 day scruff, giving him a rough air.

While he always had a smile dancing on his lips, the look of him never really changed from a man who had a grudge to hold. More often than not, he could be seen scowling off into the distance, before rolling his shoulders and smiling again.

Newfoundland was a unique personification, for sure. He was one of the oldest, concerning his human inhabitants, counting his time before Europe ever discovered his shores. Damn Bastards.  
Canada would come by for advice from time to time, more often to not because the other provinces were driving him off the roof. America, the chuckle-head, would ring him sometimes. Newfoundland loathed those days, he had no interest at talking to the country who had been responsible for grief and extra tears during WW2. The rest of the world had forgotten he existed, and he was damn happy about that too.  
He had no idea what he would do if England and his ilk, France or even Germany showed up at his door. He figured he would go into a fit and punch their lights out.

….What got him thinking about this today?

Well, as Joe sat on his porch, listening to Sunday morning Jigs'n'reels, he read about a world meeting taking place in Ottawa, for once. He had received an email that morning, one he gets every month from Canada, stating where the meeting would take place and what the main issues the head-personification intended to discuss with the other big guys were. Newfoundland didn't really know why Canada cared to do it, he guessed it was probably to see if any of the provinces had something to add, but he still found it useless.

This month's meeting would be in a few days, June 15th, and was taking place on Canadian soil. He could practically feel the excitement through the email. It didn't happen often after all, that Canada would be remembered by the rest of the world. Soon, he knew, he would get a call from the country, asking him to be there with his fellow Provinces and Territories. He would refuse, as he has done every time the meeting had taken place in the "True North".

He wasn't close to anybody, really. Even Labrador kept her distance and only contacted him when she had official documents he had to sign and deliver to the Premiere. At some point, the Viking Nations had been good friends. But they too lost contact with Newfoundland after the whole "Vinland" saga and all.

Newfoundland chuckled at that, fond memories of the Vikings… mixed with some unpleasant ones, rolled to the front of his mind. And then, ages later at a random meeting Canada had told him about, where everybody had thought Canada had been Vinland all those years ago. They still think it, of course. He never corrected them, never cared too.

He sat back in his chair, enjoying the salty, ever present breeze and a bit of sun. His Newfoundland dog, Skipper, lay by his side snoring lightly. A thought occurred to him then, as he rested there, gazing lazily at the clouds going by.

 _Maybe I should go to the meeting._

Why? He grunted at the thought. He still felt anger toward the majority of the G8, and a scattered few other nations.

 _Maybe… Maybe it's time to let things go._

He raised his eyebrows at himself. Let things go? That entailed a lot. A lot of pain, hardships, injustice, arrogance… A lot. But maybe… maybe his thoughts were right. Maybe _it was_ time to let go. This coming July 1st would mark the 100 year anniversary of Beaumont Hamel.

 _That means something. Beaumont Hamel is only one of the things bothering me, and that was 100 years ago. So much more happened before that, and look at me, I'm still bitching about it._

Newfoundland snorted. A thousand years plus worth of "shit happened". That was something to think about. He wondered just where this little stray bugger of a thought had come from. He refused Canada's offer whenever the chance came up, rarely even showing up at the "Provincial/Territorial and Country meetings". Canada would always nag him about it after, but in reality what could he do to make Newfoundland move? Nothing. That's what. The Ex-dominion never had boat loads of power, or influence, or a great big load of land. But he was damned if that meant he couldn't take down the best of them if he set his mind to it. He had knocked Russia senseless once, and he would do so again. Which meant that, at the end of the day, Canada left him to his decision in peace.

 _Maybe I should go…_

He signed. Maybe, just maybe.

That's when "O Canada" started blaring from his cellphone (damn thing), and he found himself glaring at the Canadian flag he had put as Matthew's contact picture. This was it. He had to decide.

"Afternoon Joseph! How've you been?"

"Well b'y, some day out 'ere. 'Aven't seen a better 'ne yet. Sun' out an'a'bout, fer once." Joe gave him a moment to process what he had said. Joe could speak right proper when he wanted too, but only then and not a second longer. When Canada had figured out what he meant, he chuckled.

"That's good then, b'y." Canada attempted and failed to mimic Newfoundland, before giving up completely. "Did you get my email? Are you going to come over to Ottawa?"

" 'Course I got yer mail." Joe bit his lip. It was now or never.

"Soooo you going to come over?"

"Now Matt, ya knows why I usually n'ever come by. Them G8 fellers 'ave been getting on me nerves since tha day they was introduced ta me."

Canada blinked. That was a change from the usual 'get on with ya b'y, I ain't coming to no meet'n'. Could it be, Newfoundland was actually considering it!? The nation couldn't help but feel hopeful.

"Annnd?" He prompted.

"…." Canada thought Joe had hung up, and checked if he was still on the line. "I'm still right contrary with 'em all. But… I… I might as well get on the go fer once. I'll be there."

In the capital city, Canada's face lit up. The man he considered an uncle, an unshakable rock, was actually coming to the meeting! This had to be his day!

Newfoundland could hear the squeal of joy coming (the flag only knew how that boy managed such a high pitched sound) and promptly put 3 feet of distance between the phone and his ear. As his nation yelled happily, the Ex-Dominion rested his head on his other hand, fingers playing with the double gold loops hanging from his left ear. He watched the clouds some more, mentally making a list of things he needed to bring. The meeting was in 2 days, as today was Sunday June 13th. He would've preferred more time to drive up, but it was manageable if he left today…. He could fly up…

"Joe… you still there?" Joe blinked out of his thoughts and brought the phone back to his ear.

"Yah B'y, I'm still 'ere. Didn't go no-where." Was that …Regret Joe felt? Probably. …Yes it was, he was starting to regret this already. Damnit.

"I'm so happy Joe! It's the first time since—" Canada cut himself off

"Yeh, some good mem'ries there." Newfoundland snorted.

Canada stuttered, and Joe could imagine the kid darkening to a deep shade of red. "I-I'm s-sorry Newfoundland."

"Yeh Chucklehead. Anyway, b'y I got stuf'ta do, fish ta c'tch, the jigs'n'reels as usual." Joe continued shortly, practically demanding an end to the conversation right then and there.

"Wait wha—! Joe wait! When are you—"

"Canada! Yeh got me nerves run right raw! I's comin' yeh succeeded in yer mission. Now I'll Sees yeh later!"

And Newfoundland promptly hung up in a huff of childishness. This was why he never went to a world meeting. He would be barking up everyone's trees, asking for a fight. He wasn't naïve. He knew how he would personally react, and he knew how most countries would react when faced with a pissed Newfoundlander. Memories, time barely dulling their edges, floated behind his eyes. German submarines, the war front… Slaughter. Famine….

No. He refused to think about it. They were just panels of his life, just the newest atop a very tall tower of vivid, painful images that would never leave, never be forgotten.

"Hey b'y Skip." He sighed, a small smile on his face. The huge dog looked up at his owner with a tilt of his bear-like head. "Seems to me that we're a headed to good ol' Sint'John's." That bit of road alone would take 12 hours, 10 if there wasn't any construction or delays. Then, he would go straight to the airport. No point in taking a night's rest if he could get there first, and then sleep. Skipper would be coming, of course.

The dog barked happily and stood. The beast stretched, tail wagging, and then wandered down the stairs of the balcony down into the lawn and copse of trees. Joe let the animal to himself, and walked inside the house to pack up a few things.

He washed himself up, packed enough clothes for a week (and a bottle of screech), figured he could buy Skipper some food in the capital of his province, and with that, closed his house up for the week. He didn't bother to lock the doors, nobody in the community ever did. With his black duffle bag slung over his shoulder, Joe started down the lane to his old, beaten up, white-on-blue 1970 C10 Chevy pick-up. Dinged she may be, but that truck ran like a charm. Mostly because Newfoundland overhauled her when he got her, and has been taking care of the vehicle since.

He plopped the bag in between the two front, and only, seats. He looked back up toward his house, and then around the yard. Skipper was nowhere in sight, so Newfoundland proceeded to wolf-whistle loudly. Odd as that may be, wolf-whistling was the only way to get his mutt to come to him.  
Not even 10 seconds later, the bear-like black dog bounded out from the trees heading straight for Joe. The man stepped aside, and without breaking stride Skipper jumped up into the cab of the pick-up (rocking the vehicle on its wheels) and sat himself down in the passenger seat.

Skipper barked eagerly, giving the impression of impatience. Joe snorted.

"Whatever, Mutt, I was'a wait'en fer you, not tha other way 'round."

The dog barked again, whined and looked at Joe thoughtfully. Joe rolled his eyes, clambered up in the truck and closed the door behind him.

"Al'right, Al'right. Here we go's."

He started the engine, put the truck in gear and officially started regretting his decision to humor Matthew for once.

(I DONT KNOW HOW TO DO LINEBREAKS)

Port aux Basques, 45 minutes into the trip… (10 am)

The town was busy, people that came in on the ferry from North Sydney, NS were all over the place. Newfoundland liked to think the tourists were here for the big Beaumont-Hamel ceremonies, but he knew that the nice weather and beautiful scenery were much more likely to be the reason. Unless it was neither, and in that case Joe didn't really give a cod fish.

(IT'S PISSING ME OFF)

Corner Brook, 3 hours 5 minutes into the trip… (1:05 pm)

It was now 1:05 in the afternoon. Newfoundland had stopped at a Subway in the town of Corner Brook, took 3 roasted steak sandwiches to go, and was munching on them in his parked truck. He took 1 and a half for himself, and gave the rest to Skipper. Once they were both done the meal, one making a considerably bigger mess then the other, and once Joe had cleaned the aforementioned mess up, the duo hit the road once more.

(WHAT THE HELL)

Grand Falls-Windsor, 5 hours 46 minutes into the trip… (3:46 pm)

Passing through Pasadena, Deer Lake, South Brook and Badger on their way to Grand Falls made Newfoundland realize that he was actually doing this. He was actually heading to St-John's, to catch a plane from St-John's international to Ottawa, to meet up with a bunch of idiot semi-mortals and co. He was surprised at how fast they were going, convinced that either traffic (as if) or construction would delay them. He was mostly hoping either of those things would prevent them from arriving in time, the other part of him hoped for a provincial officer to stop him and have a chat.  
Grand Falls marked a rough half of the trip done, the next half would be going down the East coast, through Terra Nova and then the Avalon.

Joe wolf-whistled for Skipper, earning weird looks from people walking by, and once the dog was back in his seat, both set off for the next leg of their journey.

(FANFICTION!)

Terra Nova National Park, 7 hours 55 minutes into the trip… (5:55 pm)

The TCH, or Trans Canada Highway went straight through Terra Nova National Park. This was fine, except that construction workers were completely redoing this stretch of road. Newfoundland was stuck in a medium-long line of cars, driving slowly through the park. Not even the good ol' rock n' roll on the radio could cheer the province up. He was in a dark mood, cursing everyone and their uncles. Why hadn't he just told Canada to suck it up and stop begging him to come? Or better yet, ignore his call all together!

And for a cherry on top, he was going to meet all the nations!

Why had he agreed to this?!

(MEW)

Just outside Terra Nova, 9 hours into the trip… (7 pm)

If one were to look into the white-on-blue, dinged up old Chevy truck cruising down the highway, they would see an older looking young feller, belting it out in harmony with his great big Newfoundland dog to the tune of The Rumjacks "An Irish Pub Song".

…What an alarming sight.

(NEWFOUNDLAND!)

St-John's, 12 hours 10 minutes from Rose Blanche. The end of the road. (10:10 pm)

Newfoundland decided to frig his decision of "catching a plane right away" in favor of parking the truck on top of Signal Hill, now deserted save for a few ambitious photographers, to watch the stars. It was a clear night, warm with a cool, crisp breeze.  
Like this, the castle almost seemed like the proud fortress it had been. It brought back memories, and it wasn't hard to picture the historical monument as Joe had known it, bustling with activity. Red coats, canons ready to fire, great big schooners of fish and war, all of which long gone save for artifacts and stories.

Newfoundland ended up falling asleep there, visions of days long past dancing in front of his eyes.

(NEWFIES!)

" _OH CANADA~~"_

 _Oh for god's sake…_

 _"_ _OUR HOME AND NATIVE LAND~~"_

Joe fumbled around, looking for his phone in a half-slumbering state.

" _TRUE PATRIOT LOVE, IN ALL THY SONS COMMAND~~"_

 _Where the hell is my phone!?_ Newfoundland found it before Oh Canada could go into its French phase and make the province even grumpier.

"WHAT?!" He growled into the device, making the Nation on the other end shrink back for a second.

"D-did I wake you?" Canada asked timidly, making Newfoundland scowl and start to blink the sleep from his eyes.

"No b'y, it's only," he checked the time on his phone. His scowl deepened. "8 in tha morn'en." Which actually didn't bother the ex-dominion. He normally woke up at 5:30 am anyway. No, what made him grumpy was how sore he felt. Plus, making Canada guilty was always Jjdinfiuf

"Oh jeez I'm so sorry!" That was when Newfoundland realized the time difference, and cut Canada off from whatever he was going to say next.

"Why's ya call'en me at 6? Yah barely manage tah get up at 10 on a good day!" Newfoundland yawned and looked around, noticing he had fallen asleep in the pick-up on top of Signal Hill. Skipper was still asleep, remarkably. Tourists were out and about, but nobody had noticed them.

Canada chuckled. "Well, I'm getting things ready for tomorrow! I also wanted to ask when you're coming, 'cause I got everything set up already! All the provinces have their own floor at the hotel—" Newfoundland went to protest in outrage, but Canada knew this and continued briskly, "—But you got a room right next to mine on the level I booked for Nations."

Newfoundland deadpanned. "An' tha's better?"

"….Joeeeee come onnnnnnn." Canada whined like a child. Newfoundland had to resist the urge to slam his face on the steering wheel. "It's only for a few days!"

"A few days too long."

"Newfoundland!"

"Pfft."

There was a silence, and the province could just imagine Canada was rubbing his temples. He didn't know why the nation even bothered. Everyone but the provinces would probably just think they were in "North USA" and forget about all about the host country.

Newfoundland's blood boiled a bit at that. He had lied, he did know why Canada bothered. This was important to him, getting noticed. He tried his best every time, and every time he failed. _Not this time._ The eldest-yet-not-at-the-same-time member of Canada's provinces smiled darkly. He could get his revenge and get Canada noticed at the same time!

"Newfoundland!"

"Hmm?"

"Did you hear my question?"

"Nah b'y, sorry 'bout that." The nation sighed.

"I asked, when are you arriving?"

"Oh. I'm catch'en me self some breakfast and head'en to tha airport now."

"Call me when you get here, I'll pick you up!"

"Fine, I'll see yeh later lad."

"See you soon Joe!"

Newfoundland half-heartedly muttered an answer before hanging up and immediately got out of his truck. Skipper had woken up during the call, and followed him out.

"How 'bout a walk 'round the hill, ol' Skip? Before we heads to tha Capital."

The dog barked and bounded ahead a few steps, leaving Newfoundland to follow him before the mutt got himself into the center of tourist attention.

(NEWFOUNDLAND DOGS!)

An hour and a half, many tourists, pictures, and breakfast later, Newfoundland found himself at the St-John's airport, freshened up and in a clean set of clothes. He had locked up his truck in the traveling parking space, and already sent both his bag and Skipper (in a last minute bought XXL dog kennel) through the luggage control.

Turns out the next plane to Ottawa had free space and was leaving right away, so a quick scramble through security and the boarding gates later found economy class, infrequent flyer Joseph K. Smith in a window seat looking around tiredly.  
Newfoundland never liked planes.  
When America and Canada were Pilots in the wars, he was ship Captain. He would take the rolling sea over air turbulence any day.

The plane started its taxi toward the runway, and the ex-dominion settled down for an uneasy flight.

He couldn't help but think he was going to regret his decision even more than he was now.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Canadian Squad

**This is now a Co-op fanfic! Big thanks to SonoSvegliato, my awesome beta-reader/writing buddy. I forgot to put the disclaimer in the last chapter, so here it is: I don't own Hetalia (or Grey foggy day by Shanneygannock), cuz if I did, Canada would rule the world.** **So with that done, onto the show!**

 **~*The chorus to Grey foggy day is my linebreaks*~**

~~Chapter 2 - The Canadian Squad~~

5 hours, 10 minutes and 35 seconds later, Joseph walked out the front entrance of the Ottawa/Macdonald-Cartier International Airport. Skipper followed grumpily behind him, on a leash. Leashes were mandatory here, but back on the Island they weren't really. His mutt, if one were to take from the beast's mood, did _not_ like leashes. Joe however, didn't feel like arguing with any police officers who happened to walk by and see his friend without the 'proper safety precautions'. As such, the dog would have to learn to cope with a leash for a few hours.

It had been a long, tiring 4 hour and 45 minute flight. Canada had said to call when they arrived, and so Joe did. Turns out the traffic was terrible, and he now had an hour to burn before the country could make it over to the airport.  
 _What a lovely day this turned out to be…_ The province snorted mentally. He didn't really want to wait an hour, but Canada insisted that getting a taxi was worse. Why? Newfoundland didn't know or care, so he quickly located a bench and sat himself down on it, Skipper lying by his feet. He was going to humor that idiot of a nation, because he was too lazy and tired to do anything else.

That's when he heard it.

One of the sounds that, on a normal day, would make him annoyed upon hearing. Today thought, it just made him want to go out in the woods and stay there for decades.

" _Joseph~~!"_

The North Atlantic province looked around for a place to hide, in vain. There wasn't even a garbage can in sight anywhere near the airport's visitor exit.

He was suddenly engulfed in a hug, too fast to dodge. Newfoundland didn't even bother to struggle, and instead waited for the Overseas Collectivity of Saint Pierre and Miquelon (or just Saint-Pierre and Miquelon) to loosen up his grip.  
The little French territory hugged his "big brother" happily, then let go and laughed. While he was short and looked like a 17 year old, Jean-Pierre Nicolas Cartier (as was his human name) had a good 480 years under his belt as a French fishing community, then a colony, then a territory and "overseas collectivity". Much like France himself, the squirt had wavy blond hair he kept tied back with a black ribbon, deep blue eyes and one of the most annoying personalities you could think of. He was just built stockier and wasn't constantly flirting with everyone, which, Newfoundland knew and appreciated, made him slightly less annoying than the Nation he was a part of.

"Bonjour, Jean.*" Newfoundland sighed. None may have guessed it, but he could speak perfectly fluent French- if a bit accented. (*Hello Jean.)

"Bonjour frère-o! Comment-allez-vous!?*"  
The territory sat down next to Newfoundland, and started petting Skipper's head happily. What an amazing day he was having! First getting a call from France about a meeting in Ottawa, and then bumping into his Big brother at the airport! A-ma-zing!  
(*Hey bro! How are you?)

Newfoundland huffed and crossed his arms. "Ç'aller mieux ce matin.*" Jean raised an eyebrow. (*I was feeling better this morning.)

"Ça se voit. Pourquoi es-tu de si mauvaises humeurs? Il fait beau dehors, je suis ici, il y a une rencontre mondia— Oh, je comprend maintenant.*" Of course. Newfoundland never liked world meetings, why had he been so dumb? (*I can see that. Why you mad bro? It's a nice day, I'm here, there is a world meeting— oh. I see now.)

The older personification snorted in disdain. "Voilà seulement deux raisons. Au fait, pourquoi êtes- _vous_ ici? Je croyais que Mr. La France te passait les informations importantes après chaque rencontre.*" His sarcasm was palpable, and made Jean roll his eyes.  
(*Those are only two of the reasons. Anyway, why are _you_ here? I thought THE Mr. France ((*cough*sarcasm*cough*)) gave you all the important information after every meeting.)

Jean opened his mouth to reply, when the first notes of _La Marseillaise_ blared from his phone. He gave Joseph a look, and took the call.

"Jean-Pierre Nicolas Cartier!" Joseph heard from the cell, and Jean winced. The younger stood and walked a little bit away, turning down the call volume as he went. If Newfoundland had to guess, that was probably New Caledonia. Her and Jean had been getting close, and the last time the lad had come to visit his 'brother', he wouldn't stop talking about the other French territory, halfway across the world.

This was probably his opportunity to escape. Honestly, he normally didn't mind the kid, but he just wasn't in the mood today. With a little "come on" to Skipper, Joseph got up, grabbed his duffle bag, and quickly speed-walked toward the line of taxis waiting for passengers by the door. Too bad if Canada thought cabs weren't the ideal way of travel. He opened the back door of an unoccupied, Blueline taxi cab to let Skipper in and store his bag, while he himself got in the front passenger seat.

An older man in casual jeans and a brown jacket looked over with a smile. "Where can I bring you today?" Newfoundland perked up, the warm familiar feeling he got when near one of his own wrapping around his chest.

"101 Lyon St." He provided the address Canada had given in the email, buckling his seatbelt and relaxing as he did so. "Ya aren't from da Rock is ya?" The Rock, a little pet name for Newfoundland that would never fail as a code between one Newfie to the next.

The taxi driver looked at him in surprise. "Indeed I am. How'd ya guess tha' b'y?"

And so started a rapid fire newfienese conversation that boosted Joseph's mood considerably.

 **~*Summer days they were waaaarmer then*~**

By the time Mike, as was the taxi driver's name, dropped Joseph off at his destination, an hour and a half had past. First thing Joseph did was call Canada, telling him he was already at the hotel. Canada was a little peeved, but when Newfoundland told him that Saint-Pierre was probably still at the airport, the Nation (who had been waiting for Joseph outside) decided to go look for him and offer the French collectivity a ride. The second thing Joe did, was study the hotel Canada had booked. It was a Delta Hotel, by Mar-something or another. The building was sleek, tucked on the corner of a block and sandwiched between two other big buildings on the sides not facing the road. The province knew this was one of the priciest hotels in the capital, another testament to Canada's determination to get noticed.

He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and strode forward, the looks he received from various businessmen around the front entrance completely going over his head. He made his way inside, barely stopping to look at the modern, edgy design and impressive glass-sided staircase in the middle of the lobby. He walked over to the receptionist and stood there for a moment, waiting for the strict I'd-kick-a-puppy looking woman behind the counter to notice him.

When she did look up, her pencil-thin drawn-on eyebrows shot up. The first thing she thought to say, faced with such a situation, was…

"The stadium is on 1000 Palladium Drive, do you want me to call a taxi for you sir?"

Newfoundland blinked, frowned and decided that this was just sad. "No ma'am. I am here to check in." The woman blinked, looked over the counter a little bit at Skipper (the dog tilted his head and licked his chops) and then back at Joseph.

"To check in?"

"Yes ma'am. To a room, if we're being specific." Mentally, he was sighing sadly. Honestly, was she so used to straight-laced suits and snobbish behavior that a man walking in with jeans and a dog put her off that much? He didn't even look like a hockey player, for christ's sake!

"Oh."

"Yes, the reservation was under 'International Conference VIP'." Again, all this information had been given to him by Canada in that one fateful email. The woman, looked at him for a second, debated on whether or not to ask if he was serious, before deciding that if he _was actually_ somebody important (she doubted it, just look at what he was wearing!) it was better to leave a good impression.

"Code?"

"1949."

The woman ran the code through the reservations, matching it to a room that was indeed on the International Conference level. She paled considerably.

"I am so sorry sir! You have room 335. Do you want anything brought up to your room? I can get somebody to—"

"I will be fine, thank you. May I have my key?" Newfoundland asked, lips drawn in a forced polite smile. At least he had decided to speak "normal", the woman wouldn't have been able to understand him otherwise. She squeaked, handing him his key. It was a standard affair, sleek credit card like thing with a black tab bearing a gold flaked 335 on both sides. His own Delta Hotel in St-John's had the same thing. With fake gold leaf though. He nodded his thanks to the woman, turned on his heel and started walking to the elevator, Skipper not far behind.

Once in the elevator, he ran a hand down his face and shook his head. He didn't like big cities much. People were almost always cold, presumptuous, arrogant. Not to say that everyone back home were angels and saints either… But really. It was a big difference from the friendly atmosphere on the Island.

"Hey b'y skip? Let's hope we' is tha firs't ones her'e." He chuckled, and ruffled the dog's head fur. Normally the VIP floors were the top ones, so he just pressed the highest button on the elevator's panel and hoped for the best. Soft music played in the background, the annoying variety. While the little shuttle was quiet spacious, Joseph fidgeted, eager to get out.

Oh, was Newfoundland looking forward to going home.

 **~*When we laughed with the oooold fishermen*~**

Joseph had settled himself down in his room, occasionally hearing feet down the hall and movement in the rooms beside his. Evidently, the other 194 (not counting Canada) countries had arrived. He doubted they were all in the same hotel, but it sure sounded like they were.

At some point, he realized he would have to get dressed for the Opening Meet that evening. He didn't really want to go, but figured somebody might as well do damage control. You never knew what could happen when all 13 provinces and territories were gathered together, not to mention all 13 _plus_ nations.

There was a knock at his door at that moment, and grumbling, Joseph got up to go greet whoever was stupid enough to bother him.

"Wha'd ya wan—" Joseph stopped and looked at the man standing in front of his door. It wasn't anyone he was familiar with, but the man was a nation. The nation at the door looked taken aback for a moment.

"Who the fuck are you?!"

It was Joseph's turn to be taken aback. "I can ask tha' same of ya, ye stunned arse!"

"What did you say to me, you fucking—"

"ROMANO! What did we say about swearing to random strangers!"

Newfoundland peered down the hall, and spotted another man walking towards them. The in-need-of-anger-management one, the one with dark brown hair and an odd curl sticking out to the side, scowled.

"What the fuck do you want you tomato-loving bastard!" Romano growled, his face becoming red. Newfoundland was torn between wanting to see how this played out, or slamming the door in both countries' faces. The second man came to stand next to the first, slightly curly, messy brown hair bouncing as he walked while happy, green eyes looked at Newfoundland in curiosity. Both men seemed familiar enough, but Joseph couldn't really be bothered to try and dredge up their identities from his memory.

"Romano, you're so rude." The second sighed. Mexico? Newfoundland guessed. Maybe. "Anyway, we're sorry to interrupt you, we're looking for Italy."

"Bastard got himself lost, have you fucking seen him or not?!"

Newfoundland scowled at them. "I 'aven't seen yer bud, now, good'ay by's." The province went to close the door, but stopped when he saw the blank looks they were giving him. His scowl deepened.

"I said, I H'aven't SEEN yer Buddy, now, GOOD'ay to ya bo'th by tha lard thandaran' jaysus."

"Man, are you ok? I mean, your voice sounds kind of….weird."

"That's the fucking understatement of the fucking century you tomato-loving Spanish bastard!"

Newfoundland pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't like they didn't have accents either, the hypocrites. A little part of his mind identified the 'polite' one as Spain, taking a hint from the 'Romano' person. But that was only a little part, the rest was warily watching the approaching form of yet another country. One he knew personally.

"Newfoundland!" Canada walked up and stood right next to the two others. Spain jumped, looking around in surprise.

"Did you hear something!?"  
"I didn't hear anything you fucking bastard!"  
"I could've sworn…"  
"Joseph, I'm glad you made it to the hotel!"  
"I heard it again!"  
"YOU IDIOT SPANIARD, I DIDN'T HEAR A THING!"

"By tha 'oly mudder ah Mary! Would yas shut yer traps fer a bit? Yas ar' both worse d'an a skeet figh't in Sin-Johns!" Newfoundland growled, and all the noise ceased. Mostly because the majority of those present didn't have a clue as to what had just been said.

"Ye two!" Joe pointed at the two men who arrived at his door first. "Git! Me nerves ar' run rig't raw jus' lookin' at ya!" He sent them a scowl and a glare that would get Germany, Scotland, and possibly Russia on their joly way. Even if Spain and Romano didn't really understand the words, the message was clear enough. Canada watched them go, wondering what had caused the whole thing. After a moment of silence, Newfoundland simmering down and collecting himself while Canada mentally noted that his would-be uncle's skills hadn't dulled over the years. Joe could still get nations to retreat as fast as Italy would faced with the British army. In the end he wasn't completely surprised, but seeing Newfoundland's temper always got him thinking.

"So Mattie, how's yer gett'n on b'y?" The elder said, the first to break the silence. He inspected Canada a bit, noting the tired slump of the nation's shoulders, contradicting the excited air about him.

Canada turned back to Joseph and smiled. "Never been better." He beamed. "How was the flight? I brought Jean-Pierre back here, thanks for telling me. Sorry about the traffic."

"Don 'pologize for somet'in ye 'as no control 'over." Newfoundland frowned and crossed his arms. Skipper bumped his legs from behind, whining and probably drowning the expensive carpet in dog drool. Joe stepped aside with a roll of his eyes, letting the dog pass to get a scratch from Canada. Matthew obliged happily. "Da flig't was tiring. Anywho why did'ja come calling?" From down the hall, he could've sworn he heard Romano shout, and something sounding suspiciously like 'kol~kol~kol~' echoed eerily afterwards. He shrugged it off as just another weird nation.

"Oh, just wanted to say that the Meet is at 7…. You _are_ coming, right?" Canada gave Joe a hopeful look, to which he returned with a cold gaze. The nation faltered in the moment of silence that followed.

"Jean's gonna be dere?"

"Which one?"

"Eiders 'nough tah keep me here." Joe deadpanned. Canada stood and wiped drool off his pants. Skipper barked once in good-bye, before going back to drowning the bed in saliva. The nation sighed.

"I still don't understand why you and Québec don't like each other. It couldn't have been that bad, eh?"

"Wha 'bout tha cowb'ys?"

"Please don't tell me you still hold that grudge—"

"They flood'ed Da _Republic's_ hold wit' _grass snakes_ —"

"That was ages ago!"

Both men looked at each other, one stubbornly scowling with his arms crossed, and the other shaking his head in exasperation.

"Come on Newfoundland! Please? For me?"

Newfoundland looked at him unimpressed, and promptly closed the door in the nation's face. Canada was left outside, regarding the space where Joe had stood with a sad gaze. He would never understand why the province insisted on keeping to himself with so much gusto. He sighed, brushed some hair out of his eyes, and left. He had people to see and a supper for almost 210 people to organize.

 **~*And we cursed when the foooog rolled in*~**

"Can I take back my statement dude? Your food is wayyyyyyyy better than Iggy's!"

Canada sighed, adjusted his glasses and looked at Alfred F. Jones, self-proclaimed Hero, neighbor and brother, who just happened to be the U.S. of A.

"Alfred, you say that everytime…" But his words went unheard, reduced to a loud whisper with such a large crowd present. Canada rolled his eyes, and looked around the ball room. Waiters with silver platters, some carrying refreshments and empty glasses while others brought around hors d'oeuvres, ducked between chatting personifications. In a corner, a small quintet played on a raised platform next to a black grand piano (Austria was harassing the poor pianist and Canada winced as the man got up, growled something at the nation and stormed away, leaving an offended country behind him) and the sound of music mixed pleasantly with all the chatter.

The ballroom itself was beautiful. The floor was covered by a deep blue carpet, with lighter blue swirls all over it. The walls were interspaced dark and light wood panels with light pouring from every second gap. The ceiling was separated dark wood squares, with a white light fixture in each large section. There were various tables and chairs scattered around the edges of the room, and there was a bar in the middle, under a crystal chandelier. A very nice ballroom indeed.

Canada could see various countries from his position (sitting at a table with Alfred, as he gulped down a tray of food he had taken from a surprised waitress). Prussia, Scotland and Denmark were at the bar, more likely than not scaring the bar tenders into serving them more alcohol than humanly acceptable. The other Nordics weren't too far away either. Germany seemed to be deep in a business-related conversation with Switzerland if his expression was anything to go by, Romano glaring daggers at the blonde as he passed, Spain trying to calm him down. England was busy trying to get Ireland to stop fawning over Wales and Sealand, who had somehow snuck in. France wasn't too far behind England, happily irritating the British man while simultaneously dragging a moody Saint-Pierre around.

Russia was— _Is that a bloody pipe peaking out of his pocket?—_ Talking to the Baltics. Poland was there too. Canada frowned and decided to keep tabs on them. He thought he caught a glimpse of Belarus hiding under a table nearby, staring intensely at Russia, but he wasn't sure. When he blinked, she was gone. China was talking to an uncomfortable Japan, who had had the misfortune of being the nearest 'pillow' for a sleepy Greece. Hungary and Ukraine were talking quite excitedly about something, a slightly disturbed Australia and confused Thailand glancing at them every so often. It was safe to say that Mathew didn't want to know what the girls were talking about.

Many others were milling about of course, but none of the Canadian squad were present. This made Matthew worried, for all he knew, Yukon and Nova Scotia had convinced everybody to ditch the Meet and go to a pub or nightclub. But… Newfoundland wouldn't possibly do that… would he?

The night continued on, Alfred had moved on to annoy England and Canada found himself walking around alone. He drifted from group to group, trying to join in on the conversations. Keyword: trying. He never got acknowledged, or heard, finally ending up aimlessly walking around, worrying more and more about his 'colleagues'. He was brought out his nervous musings when a hand tapped him on the shoulder solidly, surprising him.

"Whaa- Oh, Germany. It's you." Canada said quietly, turning to look at the stern-faced blond at eye-level. Contrary to popular belief, Matthew was quite tall. He was only a few centimeters shorter than Russia, able to look Germany in the eye easily. He did so now, smiling kindly. "You startled me!"

"I apologise Canada, haffe you zeen Italy anyvere? I can't zeem to find him." The worry was clear in the man's eyes, and in his voice.

Matthew frowned and looked around in turn. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen Italy since the last world meeting. He figured the pasta loving nation would've just stuck with Germany. He shook his head in a negative. "I'm sorry Germany, but I haven't seen him. Didn't he come with you on the flight over, eh?"

It was Germany's turn to shake his head. He frowned deeper. "Nein, he got his own flight z'over. He zaid zere vas better pazta on another blane, I couldn't reazon vith him."

"Ah, well. Maybe the plane got delayed. I'll keep an eye out for him, eh?" Canada assured, offering the German a closed-eyed smile.

"Danke, Canada." Germany thanked, still frowning. The man turned away and headed off into the crowd, probably to find Prussia or South Italy. Matthew sighed, this was the last thing he needed. If Italy was truly missing, they would have to look for him, adding more to his shoulders in an already high-stress time.

One way or the other thought, right now, he would have to concentrate on getting the provinces and territories to cooperate for the night, if they would only show up.

Canada's worries were put to rest not a second later, because in the most obvious, _loud_ entrance in the history of World Meeting opening nights, _they_ showed up. He froze and groaned in despair, desperately hoping the ground would swallow him up whole.  
Alberta, Manitoba and Saskatchewan headed the parade, dressed in their muddy-kneed overalls and hay dusted sweaters. They seemed drunk already, by the way Manitoba held a hockey stick at the ready and how Alberta yelled at Saskatchewan about wheat prices.  
P.E.I, or Prince Edward Island, raged in after them, red twin braids all astray and green-eyed freckled face wild. She seemed to be in an argument with Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, the latter of whom had slipped into Acadian, showing just how hammered he was. Canada sighed. The maritimes never were the quietest bunch sober, let alone drunk. Labrador and Newfoundland were not included, they were the Atlantic duo, never to be mixed with the maritimes. _Never._

Next came Yukon and Québec. They weren't too bad, but were still arguing loudly about maple syrup prices and polar bears… Matthew wasn't too sure what the connection between the subjects were, but it seemed like a very serious argument. By now, understandably, most nations were shocked into silence and were merely gazing at the newcomers with confusion and bewilderment.

Ontario, Labrador, Nunavut, B-C or British Columbia and the North-West Territories held up the back, tremendously quieter than the rest. These were the more sensible… and dangerous ones. N-W.T and B-C were terrible pranksters, and one always had to be on guard in case a prank war started up randomly.  
Labrador, Ontario and Nunavut, on the other hand, were all genuinely quiet. They were the reasonable ones, the older siblings to everybody else. Canada smiled as he saw them walk in, knowing they had tried to stop the rest from fooling around, even if it was in vain.

Somewhere in the background, somebody's phone went off.

Ontario and Labrador went straight to Canada, both wearing apologetic looks on their faces. "Hey, Matt, sorry about… this." Étienne, or Ontario, motioned to the Canadian squad, currently still in a little world of their own. His words were easily heard, in the semi-silence of the ballroom. The drunks were loud of course, but all the nations were still far too shocked to utter a peep.

Matthew sighed, passed a hand down his face, and looked at Étienne. "No, I honestly didn't expect anything else to happen. This was inevitable. It's the absolute worse thing-"

"YOU'RE VHERE?!"

The Maritimes stopped raging, Yukon and Québec paused in their abstract conversation about Polar Bears and Maple Syrup. Hell, even the Prairies stopped in their drunken rampage.  
"-That could happen…" Canada finished quietly, looking at a the one who had spoken, a very disgruntled Germany.

"Vhat do you mean, 'Newfoundland'?" Germany frowned in confusion.

"...I knew' me ears were a' ring'n fer a good reas'n." Everyone's heads snapped back to the entrance, where one last man stood. He was well dressed, a salt and pepper cap on his head, his hair slicked back and standing beside him, newly groomed, Skipper. Germany looked at Joseph, and Joseph returned it blankly.

"Now den b'y, why' were's ye look'n fer me?" Joseph spoke first, breaking the silence that had settled again. He broke eye contact with Germany, scanning everybody in the room. He sneered at his fellow provinces, nodded in an only slightly friendly manner at Labrador and, finally, locked eyes with Canada.

Matthew shrugged, he didn't know who Germany was talking too. A few moments later, the european nation ended the call with a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
"It vould zeem," He started, looking Joe in the eye again. "Zat Italy is stranded in 'St-John's' on the island of Newfoundland."

All the (drunk) provinces laughed tauntingly. "Heyyy then. Seem's to me the Newf, hat'er of Eur'opeans 'specially, is gon haf'ta get their lost p'uppy back." Nova Scotia stuck a thumb's up at Joseph, the elder glaring daggers at the Maritime province.

"An' ye bett'her shut ye traps befer Is do it fer yeh ye's bum'ling chuckle-headed skeets." He snapped back so sharply, Nova Scotia backed off immediately. He turned, once more, back to Germany. " 'As fer ye buddy, he'll be fine. Da folks at da airstrip 'll 'elp 'im out fer sure." He really did try a reassuring smile, but it came off as a grim upturn of the lips.

It was not meant to be. Germany shook his head, and Newfoundland frowned even more. "He'z already gotten himzelf lost." Canada noted the blonde nation had some impressive linguistic skills, understanding Newfoundland first try.

Joe gave the man an 'are you fucking serious' look, passing a hand down his face and turning to the rest of the assembled nations.

"Al'ight ye buggers! List'n up!" He got their attention easily. "Ge' back tah yer own business! Frig off!" Newfoundland scowled at them, motioned at the doors to Germany and started marching away. Skipper barked twice as if to add his two cents, and followed his master out.

Conversation started up again slowly, steadily gaining steam but remaining mute in comparison to the loud chatter of before. The provinces and territories, mostly, just shrugged and went back to being the disturbances they were.

Canada of course, along with Labrador and a few other, unseen countries, headed straight to the door. When they exited,Newfoundland was standing in the lobby, one hand on his hip while the other held his phone to his ear. Skipper lay on a sofa, Germany sitting next to him, absentmindedly examining the bear-like dog.

Once everyone who followed stood in the lobby, Russia, England, France, America, Japan, Prussia and South Italy were all around in a semi circle. Labrador sat on the other side of Skipper; the dog greeting her with a big, slobbery lick to the face.

"So, what the devil is going on?" England demanded, looking pointedly at Newfoundland. The province scowled deeper, and turned his back to the Brit, effectively ignoring him.

England then turned to Canada, noticing his adopted-son for the first time that night. "Oh Matt! Didn't see you there! Say, do you know what's happening?"

"Arthur~~ You are zuch an idiot. Didn't you hear? Italy izz mizzing!"

"Shut up frog! No one asked you! Of course I knew that!"

"Arthur! Mon amour! How you wound me zo!"

"Well actually-" Canada tried in vain to break up the argument before it started. Of course, no one but a certain ash blonde payed attention.

"WELL WOULD YAH LOOK AT THAT! Iggy! I thought you always took these icky fancy dressy things seriously! Even I know Italy's missing, AND I'M ME!"

"WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN, YOU YANK?"

"THE AWEZOME PRUZZIA VILL FIND ITALY! LEAVE IT TO ME!"

"YOU BASTARD POTATO LOVING IDIOT NUMBER 2! YOU COULDN'T FIND A TREE IF YOU WERE IN A FOREST!"

"Can we please-"

"VHAT'Z THIZ? SOMEONE DOUBTZ MY AWEZOMENEZZ?!"

Germany had given up and put his head in his left hand, taking deep, slow breaths to calm himself down. He could just _feel_ the migraine coming. Canada watched on in despair, trying over and over again to separate the fighting Nations. Russia stood to the side, laughing in that eerie kol~kol~kol~ of his. Japan wasn't even trying to do anything, opting to wait till the storm passed.

One sub-personnification thought, had had it up to HERE with the childish antics of the people supposedly representing the world's strongest countries. You would think that trying to track down their lost friend, currently somewhere on the streets at 11 pm NL time, would be a serious enough topic that they would at least _try_ to get along. Nope.

Newfoundland lost it. He couldn't hear his Premier over the phone anymore, and as such, with a polite 'I'll call back in a moment', hung up. With all the built up frustration of the night, Joe turned to the bickering group.

"OI!"

Prussia and South Italy stopped screaming in each other's faces, turning to look at Joe. England (who was strangling France) France (who was strangling England) and America (who was laughing obnoxiously behind both of them) however… One pissed province walked straight up to them.

" _OI YE BASTARDS!_ "

Safe to say, they shut up after that.

"Good, now, I'll only say this once-"

"Hey, didn't you talk funny a moment ago?" England elbowed America in the gut, and he stopped before Newfoundland decided to punch him.

"I'll only say this _once, and only once in a way you idiots understand._ Kapeesh?" Nods from around the room. "Good. Your friend should be fine, whatever the hell his name was. Dwight assures me the RNC is out looking for him as we speak." he sighed, took his cap off, messed with his hair a bit, and put the cap back on.

"As for getting him here… all flights are pretty booked considering the celebrations. Depends of course on when we find him, but we would have to wait a week for a flight."

"A veek iz too long. Italy needs to be found and taken care of now." Germany stood up and paced a little.

"But Terre-Neuve~~"

"Don't say my name like that you Frenchy bastard." Joe growled back at France, dodging the man's attempt to tackle him in a hug. France consequently crashed on the floor and to Joseph's misery, jumped right back up.

"We can just drive!"

Joseph watched in horror as the nations actually considered it. Nonononononono this was not going to happen. No. The countries turned to Newfoundland, regarding him with a mix of expectancy and hopefulness. Even Matthew, the traitorous bastard! HE should know best out of all of them!

"NO. Non, nein, nyet, nei, NO FUCK'N WAY! 'Cause who's gonna drive? ME! I ain't driv'n no frigg'n G-8 tah Sin-Johns! Nev'r! By tha lard thandaran fuck!" No body understood of course, except Canada and Germany.

"But Newfoundland…" Mathew tried.

"NO DAMNIT!"


End file.
